


In This Twilight, How Dare You Speak Of Grace

by cosmickaiju



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels are sexless, Borderline Personality Disorder, Crowley has BPD & Az is their fp, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Self Harm, Well temporary comfort, and also Crowley created Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 18:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17412371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmickaiju/pseuds/cosmickaiju
Summary: They can't bear to hear his pity. Can't bear the thought of Aziraphale thinking they're just like any other demon.





	1. Chapter 1

He hasn’t seen Crowley for a little while, but the signs of them and their wiles are obvious. More obvious than usual. It doesn’t quite dawn on him to be concerned, instead his mood settles on frustrated. Have they just gone and forgotten their Arrangement? He storms off to their flat to question them about that exact thing, but he only gets a few words out before they trail off, stunned into momentary silence.  
  
The flat is a scene of chaos, shards of broken pottery and mounds of dirt, shredded leaves and the stray cream feather, tinged with red scattered across the floor. The demonic energy weighs down on him, almost overwhelming. Worry squeezes at Aziraphale’s heart, and he rushes deeper into flat.  
  
‘Crowley? Crowley, my dear, are you injured?’ he calls, but he’s left without a response. This only speeds his search, and he eventually finds them huddled in one corner of their bedroom, back to. Their hands are buried deep in their hair, tugging, twisting, *pulling*, and he reaches one hand out to touch their shoulders.  
  
Before he can, however, they’ve turned around in a flash, long-sharp frame suddenly towering over him, positively predatory. They’re far more serpentine then usual, scales spreading up their face, around one golden eye, wickedly curved fangs protruding from their mouth as they speak. Something more too, at the edge of perception, something metallic and silvered, nothing but sharp edges.  
  
‘Sssssssstay away from me Azssssiraphale.’ they hiss, clawed hands clutching at his coat, shoving him far more forcefully than one would assume their lean body capable of.  
  
Aziraphale stands his ground however, and does his best to still seem calm, despite the way Crowley’s state has thrown him off kilter.  
  
‘Not until you explain to me what on Earth is going on. *And* reassure me that you aren’t injured.’ The second sentence causes them to pause, ever so slightly, confusion flickering in their eyes.  
  
‘I— I’m a _demon_ , angel, you ssssshouldn’t worry about that.’  
  
‘Really, my dear, we’ve had our Arrangement for six thousand years, I thought we were past this.’  
  
It’s then that he notices they way their hands are trembling where they still grip his coat. Except it’s more than that— their entire body is vibrating with energy, like a tightly wound coil. He reaches up then, to rest a hand on top of theirs, only to recoil when it burns. His frown deepens.  
  
‘Please, Crowley, tell me if something’s happened to you. You’re exuding far more… energy than usual.’  
  
They’ve recoiled too, at this point, thin frame standing sharp and rigid a few paces away. Their nails press deeply into the palms of their clenched fists, whole body still shaking. They aim for nonchalance, but their words come out choked, quivering in frustration.  
  
‘You can’t have forgotten I’m a demon! I can’t change my nature!’  
  
‘I know you are, dear. But just a few months ago you were arguing you were different, despite that nature.’  
  
‘Passst me wasss a naive, likely drunken bassstard!’ they spit, hands twisting at their sides, nails digging even deeper into their own flesh.  
  
‘Crowley…’  
  
‘You jussssst don’t get it, angel!’  
  
‘Explain it to me, then.’ He takes a seat on their bed, trying his best to see calm, casual.  
  
‘Get out of my flat!’ Their scales are spreading further again in their frustration, down their wrist, across the back of their hand. Further up their face.  
  
‘Not until you explain whatever is going on to me.’  
  
‘You’re a right basssstard, you know that angel?’ But something in them seems to have given in.  
  
They sink back to the ground where they stand, leaning back against the nearby wall. Burning gold eyes staring unblinkingly at where Aziraphale sits for a moment, before dropping to focus on a leaf laying between their feet.  
  
‘It’sssss not alwayssss unconsciousssly, nor isss it merely by choicce, the wiling.’ they begin, wringing their hands together.  
  
‘Sometimessss it’ssssssssssss….’ Their words trail off in a loud hiss, their fear getting the better of them. They don’t want to lose Aziraphale’s belief in them, in the fact they’re not just a demon (another part of them isn’t sure he ever did believe— he certainly didn’t believe they could love and, well, they were too terrified of his perceptions to follow *that* line of thought). Still, they try again.  
  
‘It’sssssssssssssssssssssssssss—’ They bury their face in their hands, let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a scream and a hiss.  
  
‘My dear, why don’t you take a deep breath and then try again.’  
  
The room is silent for a few minutes, save for their slightly sibilant breathing. Instead of their breathing steadying out, however, it grows raspier, almost as if they’re gasping for air.  
  
‘It’sss already my fault!’ they’re hissing out suddenly, tugging viciously at their own hair once again. ‘I don’t want to! It’ssssss already my fault they can _die_ \-- but it’ssss sssstill there… like an itch between your wingssss. But worsssse, like needlessss pressing incessssssssssssantly into your mind. Urging you on— violencssse and revenge for what’ssss been done… you want to lasssssh out and hurt them and _tear everything to piecesssss_...’ Their voice breaks.  
  
‘I don’t want to! I don’t want to be like— It’ssssssss already my fault!’ Their frame shudders, as if they’re sobbing, but without the tears.  
  
Aziraphale hesitates for only a brief instance before making his way down to the floor in front of them. He crouches there, reaching out and firmly planting one hand on their knee. Then he waits, wordlessly, until Crowley looks up at him, glazed yellow eyes, blinking once, twice.  
  
‘My dear, you aren’t like them— you wouldn’t be walking around with all this festering guilt if so.’  
  
‘Demonsss aren’t ssssupossed to feel guilt,’ they mumble, but there’s a hesitancy in their voice.  
  
‘You might be a demon, but that nature doesn’t define you— You’ve proven that time and again, dear.’  
  
They blink again, then sniff slightly. ‘I ssssuposse.’ But they relax slightly despite their scepticism, iridescent scales retreating faintly.  
  
Aziraphale finds he’s become a bit tense too, and lets out a heavy sigh, moving to lean against the wall besides them.   
  
‘I only wish you’d let me know about this sooner, my dear, instead of hiding it from me.’  
  
That prompts a soft snort from them, a hint of light glittering in their eyes.  
  
‘Do you even _hear_ yourself, angel?’  
  
It’s easier now, to fall back into their taunting deflection, and besides, it’s certainly easier than admitting to him (or even fully to themself) they’d been worried he’d realize there was no changing their demonic nature. The feelings still press insistently against them, but they seem a bit easier to exist against, for the moment.  
  
It seems to work well enough, because the line flusters Aziraphale slightly, and he offers a wry smile.  
  
‘I suppose you’re right— whatever was I thinking?’ there’s a hint of relief in his words, the both of them finding the light-hearted jabs a more comfortable, familiar territory.  
  
He stands up, offers them a hand.  
  
‘How about I put on the kettle and we get this place of yours cleaned up?’   
  
And they reach out, and take it. They find it doesn’t burn, this time.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s later, when the pair of them have cleaned up the worst of the mess, the sleeves of their shirt stained with dirt. Frustration stirs within them and twists in their chest. While their plant collection hadn’t been completely decimated, they’d still done a number on its lush foliage. And they had no one to blame but themself. Their own nature ruining the few things they enjoyed, or used to escape— they couldn’t even manage to sleep these past few days (or was it weeks?).  
  
The surge of anger, the need to lash out, tugs down on them, and thin hands shove shirtsleeves up, still too sharp fingers curling harshly into their own flesh, over and over and over again. They breathe out heavily, try to force back down the feelings entangling them— there’s no need for Aziraphale to know just how much it’s taking its toll on them this time around. He’s just in the other room, fixing a fresh pot of tea, they merely have to recompose themself— how hard can it be, they’ve been managing nearly constantly for the past six thousand years.  
  
Except he’s too fast, and he catches them still half trapped in the throes of their own frustration, the claw marks on their own skin bright red and too too visible.  
  
‘My dear! What on Earth are you doing?’ Aziraphale hurries over and sets the tea down beside them, stopping the wounds from bleeding with a wave of his hand.    
  
They’re frozen in time, and can’t manage to move, let alone look at him.  
  
‘It’sss jusssst a flesssh wound.’ they manage to croak out halfheartedly, offering what they hope is their signature serpentine smile. It doesn’t appear to work, because his frown only deepens.  
  
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re on about Crowley, but please be serious.’  
  
They swallow thickly, and it feels as if their words are caught in their throat like a too large rat for a few long moments, before their frustrations come pouring out.  
  
‘I’m ruining everything!’ they hiss, tongue flickering rapidly, further betraying their stress.  
  
‘Everything I enjoy! Firssst I can’t ssssssleep….. Then I can’t even find my ussssual enjoyment in little prankssssss, gluing coinsss down issssn’t even fun— I’m too dissstracted. And now my plantsssssssssss….’ They trail off in a hiss, voice thick with guilt as they hide their face in embarrassment. They’re a demon for G-Sa- Somebody’s sake, they shouldn’t feel _guilty_ , let alone embarrassed. They take a deep, shaky breath, run shaking hands down their face, and by the time they’re done, their sunglasses are perched back atop their nose.  
  
‘Crowley my de—’ They’re standing again before he can finish his sentence, pushing him forcefully towards the door. They grab his coat from where he’d tossed it down on their coat, somehow half-miracle it on him and make it to their before he can get a word in edgewise (they can’t bear to hear his pity, hear that he thinks they’ve done— they _are_  wrong). Thankfully, they’ve caught the angel in a moment of shock, long enough for them to nudge him out the door.  
  
‘Don’t worry about me, angel, better this than your precious humans. Go take care of your store— I’ve got plants to reorganize.’  
  
And with that, they close their door on him, and sag heavily against it for a few long moments. They try not to think about what else they might have ruined, letting him see them like this. See this weakness in them, something demonic, something vulnerable. He hates them now, they’re sure of it, just as they’re sure he was just trying to help. They swallow thickly and push themself back to their feet, ignoring the tightness in their chest at the thought of him being _gone_. But they know it’s better this way. They’re better off without the angel, they don’t need him. Don’t deserve him, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @genocidaltheta on tumblr if you want to chat~


End file.
